Just Breathing
by rikkucheerio
Summary: GorenOC. My take on the PostEndgame fic A series of 1st and 3rd person one shots. Has the potential to be spolierific.
1. May 15, 1:27am

_The darkness enveloped him, cold and smothering, like a blanket soaked with ice water. He sat in the chair, not seeing, not hearing, just breathing. All he could do was focus on his breathing. There was nothing else except the air in his lungs. If he thought about anything else, let his mind wander away from the safe territory of that basic function of life, he'd succumb to the tears and rage that he'd managed to bottle up at some point._

_Andy slipped quietly into the dark room, standing just inside the door. Seeing him sitting there, motionless in the dark broke her heart. She had no idea what had transpired over the last few days and she didn't dare ask. He didn't look like he could handle revisiting what had happened. He'd tell her when he was ready. She walked quietly over to him and laid a hand softly on his shoulder. He didn't move, didn't react. She knew he'd shut down. His normally sharp senses would have given away her presence first thing, not even giving her the opportunity to sneak up on him as she had. She stepped in front of him, kneeling down, letting her hand slid to his knees. His blank gaze shifted down to her._

_"Let's get you home, huh?" she asked softly. "I want you to stay with me tonight."_

_"No." His voice was barely there, trapped somewhere in his chest._

_"Then I'm staying with you. I don't want you to be alone tonight."_

_"I'll be fine," he said, not even bothering to try to sound convincing._

_"No, you won't. C'mon, Bobby, don't shut me out. Not now." Andy blinked back the tears that were fighting their way out. The haunted, broken look in his eyes tore at her heart, leaving her silently struggling to stay steadfast in front of him._

_He responded simply by closing his eyes in a futile attempt to block her out, staying silent for a while. After a moment, he nodded. She smiled sadly, taking his hand as she stood up. He opened his eyes and looked up at her. His own tears had reemerged, escaping down his cheeks. Bobby tugged on her hand lightly, pulling her into a tight hug. He clung to her, burying his face in her shoulder. She sank down into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck._

_She was scared, afraid to leave him by himself. It was a nagging pain in her chest, trying to overwhelm her rationality. He'd be all right. Right? He kept things so close to himself, so out of reach from her; she had no idea what was going through his mind right now. He'd torture himself with the events of the last couple months, would wish he'd said one thing or another to his mother. She'd do her damnedest to keep his head above water, in spite of his protests, even if he picked a fight. Otherwise, he'd keep it to himself and drown in his pain._


	2. May 16, 5:46am

A/N: This is going to be less of a longer fic but more like a series. The titles are pseudo-important as they give you time frame. And I apologize for the italics. As always, thanks for the great reviews.

Andy had reluctantly drifted off to sleep almost an hour ago, sprawled out on the couch. Audrey and Tolstoy had curled up together on an armchair, the dog snoring softly. The silence was thick paired with velvet darkness, leaving Bobby with a weight pressing on his chest, threatening to trap the air in his lungs. Tucked into a dark corner of the apartment, he watched the remains of his small family sleep.

It wasn't a real family. Sure, it was a stereotype—a cat, a dog, a beautiful girl, but it'd all be gone soon enough. It was a temporary answer to that perpetual question life kept asking. Andy would only tolerate so much bullshit from him before she'd grow tired and leave. That was how life worked, right? Give you someone to love only to pull them out from under you? What was the point?

What was the point to anything anymore? His life used to have purpose and meaning, but what now? The only family he'd had was gone. Frank hardly counted anymore. He was unreliable at best. He wasn't even there to say good-bye.

Picking the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels up by the neck, Bobby sloshed the amber liquid around the bottle, focusing his gaze on the tiny whirlpool he'd created. The whirlpool died down and he took a deep swig. Everything was spiraling out of control and had been for a long time. At this point, he didn't care. He was barely up to par at work and now? Why go back? Major Case would survive without him.

Andy was ridiculously optimistic in her tales of moving on and putting things back together. Obviously she didn't have the answers to the questions he kept asking. It was unfair of him to even be asking her. She kept saying he'd find something to get him going again but he didn't believe her. He wasn't even sure she believed it. He shook his head and took another deep swig. Putting the bottle back on the floor, he flicked his gaze over to Andy on the couch. Even sleeping, she looked upset. He was dragging her down, but there was nothing he could do or would want to do. It was selfish but he didn't care.

He needed her. Badly. But the night was young and there was still a lot of alcohol left. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He choked back a sob only to cough and lose the battle. The tears he'd been keeping from spilling out in front of Andy finally overcame him.


	3. May 18, 1:05am

Yesterday, I almost succeeded in ending my relationship with Andy. No, I shouldn't word it that way; there's nothing _successful_ about it. I'm stuck at a fork in the road and whichever direction I choose, the path will make her miserable. The way I see it, and I truly believe this, one path will be a constant source of hurt for her while the other will be a temporary thing. I could end it with her, spare her from having to deal with my shit. She's going to leave anyway, so why not cut to the chase? Despite what she thinks, she will get over me and she'll find something better. One the other hand, I don't know that I can stand to not have her in my life, and I realize how incredibly selfish that is. Aside from the fact that my life has completely fallen apart, I know the world doesn't revolve around me, so why should I expect her to willingly suffer on my behalf? 

I'm sorry, Andy. 

Now, if I put all of that aside and think long term, there comes a whole new set of things to worry about.

_"Hey, Dad, tell me about your father!"_  
_"Well, I don't really know, son. He could be an alcoholic gambler who liked to cheat on your grandmother and beat the crap out of me. But then, on the other hand, he could be an evil serial killer!"_  
_"Gee, Dad, that's swell. Which one are you?"_

I'm not even comfortable being in my own skin. There's an easy way to find the answer to that question, but I don't want to know. Not only is half of me plagued with the genetic red flag of a serious mental disease, but now there's the possibility that the other half is evil incarnate. I feel... dirty, tainted...unfit to be around anyone. I can't get past knowing that possibility exists. I can't get past a lot of things.

I can't get past the gaping hole in my life. There's nothing that will fill it. I loved her and despite some of the things she'd say, I know she loved me as well. She did what she could for Frank and me, making ends meet as best she could, especially after my father left. She had the strength and determination to keep going, in spite of what life threw at her. I admire her for that. I regret having picked that fight with her on Sunday. I wish I'd kept my mouth shut. If I'd known what would happen the following day, I would have done things so differently. I can't help but feel guilty, even, for possibly expediting her death, especially after certain secrets made themselves known on Monday. I'm not a doctor, I don't know if I had anything to do with it, but I can't help feeling like this. I wish I'd been a better son.

I'm sorry, Ma.

Tomorrow morning, I'll make the arrangements and a donation to the Brooklyn Public Library in her name. After that, I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what I'm doing at all anymore. I spent all day yesterday in a drunken stupor and while that's the absolute worst answer to my problem, it was also the preferred method of coping. Doctors prescribe Vicodin for physical pain; there's not much of a stretch to alcohol for emotional pain. But, as Andy pointed out right before I told her to fuck off, that method of coping makes me like my father. I don't know...the way I feel right now, I really just want to... I can't do this. 

There's no point.


	4. May 19 May 24

A/N: I felt these four parts weren't long enough to bother posting separately so I combined them. Thanks for the reviews as always.

May 19, 10:33pm

I'm going to talk about one thing and one thing only right now. If I stray from this topic, I'll be a wreck all over again and I'm tired of that. Yesterday, I had a long talk with Eames and it was her suggestion that help me to figure out what I was doing. She suggested that maybe Andy and I take a break until I could get my feet under me again. I had already been thinking that, but hearing her say it, having someone else put a voice to it, made me seriously think about it. It made me think more about it, beyond saying "I don't know" and crying about it. I thought that was something I wanted and when Eames suggested that, I agreed with her. Then, as I thought about it, I soon realized it wasn't what I wanted at all, and I then realized why I thought it was what I wanted.

Fear. I was terrified and absolutely convinced Andy was going to leave. I wanted to nip it in the bud and, theoretically, spare us the grief. In a way, it comes down to trust. It just goes to show that no matter how much I trust her, when it comes to something that's ingrained so deeply in me, I don't trust her. People in my life have a tendency to abandon me, no matter how much they claim to love me, and I just expected her to do the same now. The other thing I'm afraid of is letting her in, letting her help me. I've come this far, why break down now? I can't do this, at least, not by myself. I need to get over trying to survive this myself and let her, or anyone else for that matter, help me. These two things go hand in hand, really. I'm afraid she'll leave because I've become dependent on her or something less than myself. I'm afraid of letting myself give in and lean on her.

This much, though, I know I can fix. Everything else aside, I feel confident about where we are as a couple. As Eames pointed out, she's stuck by me for almost 7 years, which leads me to believe that maybe there's hope.

May 22, 12:14am

I think it's safe to say I hit bottom last night. I spent the better part of the evening trying to pick a fight with Andy when really, I should have been taking comfort in her company. As if that weren't enough for me, I ended our relationship. Or, at least did enough damage and put us in a position where I don't have any idea of where we stand now. She let me in when I showed up at her place drunk off my ass. I'll never understand why. Or maybe I already do. She has been... nothing short of incredible. I'm sure she doesn't see it that way. From her point of view, I'm getting pulled under the water and her hand falls a few inches short of my grasp. That's not the case at all. She has a firm hold on my hand and even though I may be resisting, she's all that's kept my head above water. In all honesty, and I hate to say this, but I don't think I would have lasted much past last Wednesday if it hadn't been for her. I almost certainly would have kept myself in a state well beyond the legal limit. If this hasn't torn us apart by now, nothing will. If her being here tonight is any indication of where things stand, I think I'm okay. Maybe I can do this. All I have to do is survive tomorrow.

Today was the first day where I felt like I could breathe. I felt like a human being instead of an uncaring shell of who I was, going through motions like an automaton. Because of this, I was actually able look back and I realized how serious this relationship is. Up until now, it was fun and light and a lot like cotton candy. Now? Now there's great depth to it, substance... devotion. As I think about it, I realize also that it's only been two months. Last week aged this relationship by ten years. I have a shitty way of showing how much it means to me and I don't even know that it's fair to claim extraordinary emotional stress as an excuse. I'm sure if you were to type "idiot" into Google, it'd go, "Did you mean: Robert Goren??!!" I know my reasons for knifing our relationship, but for actually believing them, I am an idiot. I can't see my life as being without her in it now. I know she feels the same. No, I'm assuming she does. It's logical to think if she didn't, after last night, my apartment is the last place she'd want to be.

I love you.

As for tomorrow...I'm hoping it'll bring me some sense of closure. I'll finally have an end to the longest chapter in my life. I don't want flowers or cards or any of that crap, not that there is really anyone to send it. It's all false. No one can possibly understand the immense hurt I have right now and only Andy and Eames can come close to understanding since they're the only ones who know the entire story of what transpired two weekends ago. Until you've been in this situation, shared this hell, don't pretend to know what it's like. I appreciate the concern for my well-being but I don't want sympathy. This hurt is unreal and even I can't properly articulate how it feels. Not that I should have to.

May 23, 4:28pm

My thoughts are still so jumbled up. I've no idea where to start. Or maybe I should just start with yesterday and work from there. Maybe that'll help sort things out. The service was simple but very surreal. Andy and Alex were both there, but I hardly noticed them. I was too lost in my thoughts, memories... I've come to terms with this for the most part; I have closure now. I can finally start to rebuild my life. Part of it, anyway.

I don't know if I'll ever bounce back from the first blow I was dealt. It's sucked all the caring and drive from me, leaving me with apathy and another feeling I can't describe. And this is where all the jumbled thoughts come into play. I start thinking I want to take things farther with Andy, but as soon as I do, I slam into Mark Ford Brady. I shouldn't even be thinking about the future because the present is still so fucked up. I don't know who my parents were... I don't know who I am. I know all about Nature vs. Nurture. Personality isn't determined simply by one or the other... it's a mixing of genes and situations, each person assimilating different pieces of each. So where does that leave me?

Drinking tonight.

May 24, 5:12am

Bobby weaved his way into the kitchen, completely unable to walk a straight line. Sliding a hand lightly over the top of the island, partially for balance, partially for tactile sensation of the cold surface, he walked to the sink. He dropped the small, empty whiskey bottle into the sink and flinched slightly at the sound it made against the metal basin. Hopefully it wasn't loud enough to wake up Andy. Successfully numb but not feeling any better. Common sense would say this wasn't working but it was the illogical hunt for complete numbness that made this method so appealing. To have the chance to stop thinking.

Turning around, he wandered into the bedroom and crawled into bed. Screwing his eyes shut, he pressed his face into the back of Andy's shoulder, unable to keep his hold on the tears. She opened her eyes slowly and shifted onto her back. She reached up and placed a hand on his cheek before tangling her fingers in his hair. "Hey," she said sadly. He laid down, head tucked under her chin.

His was miserable. So many things were weighing on him, pressing down harder than he could recover from. It had infected his sense of self worth, eating away at everything he believed about himself. Having finally resolved one issue wasn't enough to break even. When would this feeling end? If ever.


	5. May 31, 5:50am

His body was moving before he could stop it. Hands wrapped tightly around Brady's neck, thumbs pressing deeply into the hollow spot above the older man's clavicle. Just a little pressure is all it would take to make the man shut up, to make all the problems go away. All he has to do is press hard enough and everything would go away. Brady sneered, looking over at the guards. "Go ahead, they won't stop you," he rasped. It'd be so easy to snuff out the contemptible flame that ruined his life. "Do it. You want to," he continued, squeaking the words out. Bobby increased the pressure on Brady's neck. "Of course, then you'll be just like me. You'll live up to your full potential. Like father, like son."

Bobby walked down the hallway, trying desperately to shake the dream from his memory. Brady's words were still fresh, sounding like a whisper from a man standing at his shoulder. He could still feel his hands grabbing at Brady's neck, trying to do the city's job by killing the man. Even in death, the bastard was still able to torture Bobby. That was his plan from the beginning. Brady made sure he got the last word in, like a sliver of wood caught just below the skin, festering and infecting his mind. He would have killed Brady, but that wouldn't have made him feel any better. It would have done exactly what Brady wanted... be a chip off the old block.

He paced back and forth, anger welling up with each step. Anger towards Brady, towards his mother, towards himself. She should have known better, should have... seen the signs. But should couldn't. To her, that was the usual. The man he called his father was only a few steps better than Brady. He played the good Uncle to Frank, turning his sociopathic tendencies into disgusting lies that turned Bobby's stomach. He couldn't fathom actually being in close proximity with him, let alone have his brother willingly enjoy his company. His worthless childhood had all been built on lies, a twisted breeding ground for contempt and malice. Jo Gage was right. He could have gone either way. His genetic makeup tainted by a serial killer, his behavior influenced and molded by two parents who hardly noticed him nor cared. Why should he care now? Both the past and the present told him that he was no better than whoever his father had been, biological or otherwise. The deck was stacked against him.

Balling his left hand into a fist, he drew it back and slammed it into the wall. The wall stood fast, but the bones in his hand gave way to the unnatural forces. He heard the sickening snap of the last two fingers breaking below the knuckle, but didn't even notice. The anger and adrenaline masked the pain. Wandering over to a cabinet, he pulled down a bottle of Jack Daniels and unscrewed the cap. This was the worst thing to do, but at least drunk, he wouldn't dream. He'd slip into a dizzy unconscious, bereft of all mental reminders. He took a shuddering breath and then a deep swig of the amber liquid. His hand was starting to throb, but he hardly cared. He walked down the hall a few feet, but stopped and leaned against the wall. Sliding down, he pulled his knees up, draping his arms over them. It had been such a good night, too. Hell, it'd been a good couple of days. Thinking things were starting to right themselves again was clearly premature. Brady wasn't done yet.


	6. June 1, 2:29am

A/N: I can't take credit for Andy's dialogue. That would go to Lizzie B since Andy is her brainchild.

_"If I weren't who I __**am**__, I __**would**__ be him."  
"Bobby, you basically just agreed with me, but just made it negative. You can see it yourself that you're not him."  
"No, I'm not, but __**why**__?"  
"You want to know why you're not like Brady? Why does that matter when the important thing is you're not?"  
"I-I don't know."  
"I don't know either. I think, maybe, if I was in your position, I'd be damn proud. The nature is against me, the nurture is against me and look how I turned out? I'm a brilliant detective, with an above average career and I have a wonderful social life. I'd be smug as hell."_

She _gets_ it. Completely gets it. That's because I let her in. I willingly took down my walls. I don't know why that's so hard. Is it fear? Fear of what? She won't hurt me, at least not intentionally.

I'm done. Done resisting, done... with everything. I'm giving myself to her. I want her to help me, to fix me. I'm afraid of where I am now. I don't want to lose my grip on my life. If I slip? Even slightly? I'm lost. I have a lethal combination of drugs in my apartment at the moment. There's too much that's right with my life right now but if I keep going on the path I'm on, where will I end up? I'm not selfish enough to do anything. Or maybe my selfishness is what's keeping me together. I want to spend every moment with her so why would I do something to give that up?

I like this feeling of openness but at the same time, I feel vulnerable. It's not something I'm used to. I admitted to her that all my reasons for not going to her were just excuses. They sound valid, but when it all comes down to it, there's nothing valid about them. I didn't want to wake her. I'm tired of seeing her hurt. All excuses. While I am tired of waking her up at weird hours of the night and I am tired of seeing her hurting, none of that will stop until I can get my life back together.

I feel like my thoughts are all bouncing around but I think that's the Vicodin's fault. I feel like I'm just rambling without saying anything but I also feel like I'm finally sorting through my thoughts. Even if I wanted to go back to work now, I couldn't. I can't even do paperwork. She's mad at me for what I did but like I told her, I get what I deserve. I have to quit drinking. That's the first goal on my list. I want to do it for her, but I have to do it for me. How can I love her when I clearly don't love myself? My hand hurts but I want to stay away from the Vicodin as much as possible. If the Advil doesn't help, I'm going to lie through my teeth, even though I told her she could be my dealer.

_"So, I don't have limits, not when it comes to loving you."  
_**Thank you.**


	7. June 4, 2:09am

A/N: Again, I can't take credit for Andy's dialogue—credit goes to Lizzie B. Thanks for the great reviews. I live for feedback, good and bad.

Bobby kissed Andy's shoulder before slipping from bed, careful not to wake her. She'd fallen asleep easily while he just stared at the ceiling for an hour. This was nothing new; although the last couple of nights he had slept all the way through, but he was apt mark that down to the Vicodin more than anything else. He pulled on an NYPD sweatshirt and headed for the living room, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the dresser on his way. He shook his head as he walked over to a window, the city lights blurred by the rain on the glass. When he wasn't drunk, he was stoned. He was a fucking mess.

The Vicodin was an almost necessary evil, but he'd rather take the pain in his hand over the heavy narcotic. He'd actually taken two on Saturday which was one more than he felt comfortable with, but didn't want to be miserable while his and Andy's friends helped her move in. Instead, he'd just made an ass of himself, giggling like an idiot at absolutely nothing. Apparently everyone else had a good laugh too and while he normally took pleasure in eliciting laughs from people, he preferred to go about it differently. At least he could take comfort in the fact that his likelihood of voluntarily becoming a junkie was slim to none. No, just an alcoholic. After all, he was either genetically or environmentally predisposed to that.

He slid open the window, then the screen and perched in the window frame. The wind blew the rain around like a spray from an ocean, equally as cold. What was left of tropical storm Barry was drenching NYC, but it was a fitting end to an emotionally gray day. Saturday had been good, even if he couldn't remember details because of his pharmaceutical haze. He tapped the cigarette pack against his cast half a dozen times before awkwardly pulling one out and lighting it.

Saturday had been real good. He'd thought about moving forward, about going back to work, and thanks to 2-year-old Nicholai Hoffman, he'd thought about kids. Watching Logan with the little boy struck something in him. It was wistful, especially coupled with the conversation he and Andy had Friday night... and that feeling was completely alien. The idea of having kids was one he'd written off a long time ago, but now? Well, now it didn't matter. He'd crossed the idea off today. Going back to work was more feasible. Hell, there was no reason he couldn't go today. No logical or obvious reason, anyway. He couldn't go until he felt together again, not until he knew he could get through a week without turning to old Jack. Not until he'd learned to allow himself to lean on Andy.

He took a deep drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the wet darkness in rings. A half-smile graced his lips as he thought about what Andy had said earlier tonight. Even thought today had been a low day, she still insisted he was making progress. He couldn't agree, though. The way he saw it, a lost fight with a wall was more than a minor setback. He had spent the better part of today, listening to Andy on the piano, thinking about his mother. All that did was dredge up old feelings. He had stuck to the promise he'd made to himself on Friday by talking with Andy about it and he could see that made her happy, if not sad at the same time. To her, that was progress.

_ "Can't you see it? I can see it. You were in hell only two weeks ago, and now you're with me. You joke, you laugh, you smile at me. Bobby, you may not be all the way back, but you're getting there."_

_ "I broke my damn hand on Thursday. That's not progress."_

"I think the fact that you've started sleeping better, you're eating and that you've stopped relying on alcohol to solve your problems is progress."

_ "I couldn't even if I wanted to."_

_"You know what the biggest sign of your progress is?"_

_"What?"_

_"You came to me first."_

Flicking the end of the cigarette into the dark alley below, he unfolded himself and stood up. He closed the screen, then the window, but continued to stare at the distorted lights in the raindrops on the glass. Progress would be when he could go more than a day with out anything stronger than Advil and without any more setbacks that resulted in turning to alcohol. He felt like the only reason he was sober was because he couldn't allow himself to mix it with the narcotics. Or maybe he just didn't trust himself. The lack of faith wasn't helping, either. Andy has faith.

He yawned and pulled away from the window, retracing his motions from earlier. Cigarettes on the dresser, sweatshirt...wherever it lands this time.


	8. June 12, 4:56am

A/N: You know when you've had a character in your head long enough, it gets to the point where he just starts telling you what to write and hopes you come along for the ride? I have apparently reached that point. I'm not so sure about this chapter because it was less of a conscious decision on my part and more just typing what was flowing. Constructive criticism is great and reviews are fantastic.

Here I am at the end of yet another Monday. I hate Mondays. I always have. What's so great about them? Sure, you get to effectively start over after a disastrous week or weekend. On the other hand, Mondays have in them the hidden potential for an even worse week. So yesterday, a Monday, I went to work for the first time in two weeks. True to form, it was a disaster. At least Eames was glad to see me.

But let's move on. I'd like to take this opportunity to talk about apathy. In German: _Teilnahmslosigkeit_.  
ap·a·thy (ăp'ə-thē) n.

1. Lack of interest or concern, especially regarding matters of general importance or appeal; indifference.  
2. Lack of emotion or feeling; impassiveness.  
_see also:_ Me.

Where's it come from? I don't know but it doesn't take a genius to figure out the "why" of the matter. Or maybe it does. Would explain why I can't figure it out. I wonder how many cliché excuses I could come up with for why I've shut down. Impending Father's Day? Could be. Exhaustion? Definitely. That's only two. Pretty pathetic. And what's the deal with this pent-up passive aggressive hostility? Goes together with the apathy like a whore and a vice sting.

I don't have any answers. Hell, I'm not even asking any questions. I was sitting at that desk that isn't mine in that office that's equally not mine when it hit me. Truth be told, it was more like a slow realization. I'm just fooling myself into thinking I'm doing any better. Wasn't that the point? Wasn't the point to trick myself and everyone else into believing I'm myself again by immersing myself in paperwork or a challenging case or what have you? So today, a Tuesday, I will repeat my actions from yesterday, losing myself in mindlessly and awkwardly filling out paperwork that I'll never be able to get ahead of. I find myself asking what the point is. Why did I bother coming back to work now? Who am I kidding?

I'm having trouble admitting to myself that I need more help than Andy can give me, but then again, I don't care. Why should I? I have nothing going for me now. Ah, apathy my dear old friend. Clearly, I have problems. I mean, here it is just shy of 5am, I haven't been to sleep yet, and I've gotten progressively drunker over the course of the night. Wonderful. Congrats, Goren, you broke your promise. May as well head in now, hit Starbuck's like there's a coffee drought, and stumble into MCS in order to pretend like I'm running the joint just like I'll do for the rest of the week.

Fuck Father's Day.


	9. June 16, 2:58am

I met with Dr. Skoda today. Not for help with our case... but for me. I'm not comfortable with this at all, but... but I know I have to do it. I don't have any other options. Putting aside the fact that I had to tell him everything, to make myself a virtual open book, I was constantly reminded of my mother. I have do keep doing this, though. I came away from that appointment feeling... not a whole lot better but maybe a little relieved to know I can finally get my feet under me again. I came away with a diagnosis of major depressive disorder, but you don't need a fancy degree in psychology to know that. Even as screwed up as I am, I knew that would be the case. It just sounds so... cold? I don't know. I don't like it. It makes sense, though, given my history. I've also been put on medication. Paxil and Lunesta. I'm not thrilled about that, but I know the drugs work. It'll give me a fighting chance... it'll force me away from the alcohol much like the Vicodin did. In a few weeks, I'll be able to say, "I can do this." instead of my usual mantra of "I can't."

I hate that the people around me are suffering because of this. I can't just not be a wreck simply by choice. If that were the case, I'd never have chosen to go down this path in the first place. Both women in my life have reached the ends of their ropes. Andy tonight and Eames won't be too far behind. The current fear is that I'm going to hurt myself. I can't say that I'd never do that, because clearly, my left hand says otherwise, but **I refuse** to take the selfish, cowardly way out of this hole I'm in. Why? If I'm dead, I won't be able to see her smile at me. I should have a whole bunch of other reasons, but right now, that's really the only reason. I'm mired in such hurt and despair; I can't see the good in much else. I'm tired of feeling like this. I don't even recognize myself anymore. 

I'm surprised more people haven't tried to kill me with their eyes. I know Eames is frustrated; all I keep doing is pushing her away. She wants to help but how can she if I won't let her? Between Jo Gage and my mother, I've just been a ticking time bomb waiting for the opportune moment to explode and maximize damage. Brady was the final blow. If she were to confront me right now, if _anyone_ were to, I'd just sit back and take the beating like a punching bag. I'm not in the mood; I don't have the fight in me. I hardly even care. I'm grateful for how tolerant she and Andy have been. I expected them to abandon me; more so Andy than Eames, but that fear is omnipresent in the back of my mind. I've learned that life gives me people to love and to rely on, only to yank them away from me just as I've allowed myself to do that. Children learn pretty quickly that touching a hot pan will get them burned; they learn to not do what it was that got them hurt.

I'm terrified of a reaction I had tonight. I'm scared I've shut down more than I'm aware of. I should have responded with more emotion than I did. Even before now, I've generally responded with more feeling. I don't know. I'm hoping it was just a combination of shock and exhaustion. I'd rather not repeat the scenario to find out.


	10. June 22 and June 27

_A/N_: _Two short ones wrapped into one again. I've been struck with summer boredom and as a result, have hit a creative slump, which explains why these two days are so short. I think this little trip into hell will be wrapping up soon. As always, thanks for the fantastic reviews. _

June 22, 1:36pm 

I've been on medication for a week. I've been clean for almost two. It's remarkably easier to behave when the pull of...darkness isn't such an overwhelming feeling. I feel good. Not perfect, of course, but good. I don't feel like I'm standing at the mouth of a pitch-black cave anymore. I don't feel overwhelmed, like I'm in over my head.

I know I still have a lot of things to work out still, and in fact, I'm still bothered by this whole medicating head doctor thing, but at least now I can process it correctly. For some reason, in my mind, this is akin to failure, but yet, at the same time I know it's the best thing for me. I just have to give it more time.

I finally feel like I have a future. This is finally progress.

June 27, 11:52pm 

I've pretty much mellowed out and leveled off. Last weekend, I elated for no other reason than adjusting to my medication. I'm not over-zealous about some things I was thinking about and they've actually taken a backseat again. They're things that require more time and more thought. This doesn't mean that I'm not going to have emotional ups and downs. It just means those downs won't completely wreck me and I'll be able to work though them. Antidepressants can sometimes bring out bipolar disorder, but I think I'm clear of that. It runs in families and as far as I know, does not run in mine. But who knows at this point. I meet with Skoda twice a week and slowly but surely, I'll work though all the crap that built up over the last nine months. It may take me just as long to do it, but I will. I'm also starting to accept that this is the best course of action for me. Deep down, I feel like I should have been able to handle it myself, but all I have to do is look in the medicine cabinet to be reminded there was nothing I could do other than what I'm already doing.


End file.
